


In The Cards

by Moonlighter



Category: Avengers (Comics)
Genre: Family, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 20:53:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3502415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlighter/pseuds/Moonlighter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“To understand the intricacies of poker is to examine the nature of life itself.”<br/>The stakes are high as Wanda joins her brother for a game of heads up Texas Hold'em, and the twins talk about life through the veil of a poker lesson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Cards

_fwap_

_fwap_

_fwap_

Wanda paused to lean against the doorframe, feeling amused and something else (relief?) to find her brother in this rare state of casual normalcy; dressed in ‘civies’ as their American friend Clint refers to regular street clothes, and looking atypically calm. Lit on one side by a corner lamp, he sat facing her (still always he must sit facing the doorway) on the opposite side of the table, his attention focused downward. Spread before him, a patchwork of playing cards arranged like prophetic landmines in a pattern unfamiliar to her.

“Let me guess...” One of his eyebrows arched in silent acknowledgement of her playful preamble. “Solitaire?”

_fwap_

“Poker.” He waved a hand over the table, indicating the cards in sets of two laying face-up before empty chairs. “My invisible friends here are helping me keep track of the odds.”

_fwap_

She approached to half-perch on the far end of the table for a better view. In a flash the cards disappeared to become a brief blur between her brother’s nimble fingers, and then with the sound of _fwapfwapfwap_ he reset the maze of black and red on white. “This is not the same game you played that time in Bucharest,” she observed.

“Ah, no. There are several varieties of poker. The tournament in Bucharest was Seven Card Stud.” _fwap_ “Funny for you to remember. I had forgotten all about that.”

“I remember your bluff was better than your luck.”

He nodded and huffed at the same time, a quick expression of humor. “Well. I suppose you would know.” _fwap_ “Can I interest you? Lessons are free today.”

“Oh, ha – all right.” She took the seat one chair removed from his left side while he collected the deck to reshuffle once more. “What am I learning?”

 “Texas Hold’em.”

“What are the stakes?”

Pietro placed the deck in front of her for the option to cut it. She tapped the top without looking, matching his studious regard. Sagely, he said, “To understand the intricacies of poker is to examine the nature of life itself,” less serious than he sounded but still reading her intently. “Therefore the stakes should match, yes? No limit.”

“So we are playing Texas Hold’em to the death?”

The faintest twist at either corner of his mouth betrayed the facetiousness that Wanda had already detected in his voice. He shrugged, saying lighter, “ _Or_ , loser makes dinner – specifically your eggplant Musaka, please.”

She had to smile. “Careful, you might jinx yourself. I have not had your Goulash in years, and it was my favorite. Deal me in then – if you dare.”

He laid a card face down in front of her and then one for himself, twice. “Everyone gets two cards of their own – those in your hand are called pocket cards. Look at yours now but do not show... Wanda.”

“What?”

She recognized the telltale signs of him making an effort not to laugh outright, and his tone came less stern than he probably intended, “Do not show your cards.”

“I didn’t!”

He shook his head at her, the attempted admonishment smothered by insuppressible fondness. “You looked at them and _smiled_ – that’s the same as showing. I know you have a pocket pair. Try again.”

While he reshuffled, she bent over the table to laugh into her hands before straightening with a determined breath. “All right. Sorry. I’m ready.”

_fwapfwapfwapfwap_

“Now, there is an ante and a half ante called the big and small blind that rotates around the table. The player to the dealer’s immediate left starts out as the small blind. So you are beginning this round partially invested by default, but cannot see any more cards until you pay the ante in full. Remember, half of the game is reading your opponents.”

Taking one last look to commit the seven and nine of hearts to memory, Wanda rested her cards face-down and peered at her brother’s very unreadable expression. “Uh-oh. What’s the other half of the game?”

“Reading the odds. So here is where you decide if your pocket cards are strong enough to warrant paying more to see the flop.” He held up a hand. “I will explain the flop in a moment. It means more cards for you to work with.”

“So supposing I was dealt an unlucky hand – um, what would be an unlucky hand?”

“Well, let’s say a two and a five.”

Wanda nodded. “Then if I do not want to pay for more cards, I still lose my small blind?”

“Yes, and forsake this round – basically losing before you really played. Ultimately, your fate in poker depends as much upon chance as skill.”

“Hm. You were right.” Her brother raised his eyes in an automated fashion that indicated agreement with the statement in general. “This game _is_ like real life.”

Pietro smiled. It looked somehow sad and a little strange on him, like the plain T-shirt he wore that should seem so commonplace, but instead just accentuated his sharp musculature, made the highlight of every scar more noticeable, matched the whitest tips of his wind-bleached hair. Before she realized, his smile vanished – maybe she only had imagined it, a fleeting memory of their younger days when they were happier more often than ever since.

His gaze faraway and sidelong, he asked in a flat tone, “Are you reminded of him now, when you look at me?”

 _Him_ : there is only one. Wanda blinked, shook the sudden harrowing image of Magneto’s crazed scowl out of her head, checked on her cards that were still the seven and nine of hearts, and forced a lie through the defenses of her frown. “No. What? Of course not.”

As if the question had been in her imagination as well, he carried on without an apparent hitch, “Pay to play, or fold.”

“I want to play. Hit me.”

Again that effort not to laugh, since she knew what to look for – anyone else might assume he compressed his lips together in contemplation. “No – that’s Blackjack. What happens now -if there are no bets to call- is that we see the flop.” He dealt three cards face-up between them. “These are community cards, meaning you can use them to help build your best hand of five, as can everyone else at the table.”

“But I cannot see their pocket cards, nor they mine.”

“Correct.”

“Well that complicates things…”

“Exactly.”

“So, my dearest brother…. what cards do you have?” she asked, overly sweet.

In response to her teasing, he leveled that unwavering stare of his reserved (usually) for hardened villains in heated combat. Grey like winter sky. Anyone who said her brother’s eyes were blue had never looked closely. The only color other than cold, a vague moss like the first sign of spring reflected through icy thaw.

“Not under the vilest of tortures will I ever tell,” he said, almost half-jokingly.

Wanda sighed. “Worth a try. Now what?”

“There would likely be varying degrees of betting in between the last two cards being revealed, which we can gloss over. Difficult to explain the methods of strategy in that regard without several players. So once the pot is square -in other words, anyone unwilling to match the final highest bet has folded- we see the turn.” He laid another card on the table, making four. “Another round of betting, and then we see the river.” He straightened out the five cards on the table, identifying them in the order that they had been dealt. “Flop, Turn, River. Final round of betting, and then whoever has the best hand of five among their pocket plus the community cards in any combination, wins.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes. No. That’s the mechanics of it. There is a great deal more that could be said as far as technique. Anyway – how would you have fared?”

“Well… I have two hearts.” She flipped them over for him to see.

“You have a pair of nines actually; your match came up on the turn.” He pointed. “But I have a pair of kings, which came up on the river – I would not have stayed in the game to the end though, my other card was an unpaired deuce. So I won, but by dumb luck. See? It’s really just a game of chance, anyone can win.”

Wanda knew better. She had never seen her brother sweat while stationary, until that tournament in Bucharest. “Are you placating me with a false sense of confidence because you want Musaka?”

Reeling back aghast, he said, “Nooo,” while nodding his head up and down, sending Wand into another fit of laughter.

Composing herself, she pounded a fist on the table, “I demand a rematch! With chips and real betting, too. I am armed and dangerous and taking you down, mister.”

“Whatever you say, chef.” He built six even stacks of chips and slid three over to her.

They played several rounds without any stellar action on either side, their pillars of coin teeter-tottering this way and that. Wanda supposed he was going easy on her – she wanted him to. She wanted the game to go on forever, to sear into her memory where none other existed of the last time they had played together at anything except being heroes, at being better people than they had the birthright or the track record to be.

 “You’re doing well, truly. Just be mindful how you pace your wagers,” he said. “Raising my bet and then checking on the next turn indicates you missed your hand.”

“Unless I was bluffing.”

His lips folded briefly, not in contemplation of the community cards that he scanned. “There are dozens of muscles in the human face, you know. They are in almost constant motion, reacting like a knee-jerk to any given circumstance faster than we could laugh at an involuntary spasm. It’s rather fascinating.”

“I see.” She eyed him knowingly. “Then perhaps watching me with the advantage of slow motion perception should be considered cheating?”

“I’m certain the pit boss in Bucharest would have agreed with you.” He laid down his cards. “Pair of aces – sorry you missed your straight again. Those are fairly rare, by the way – unless you catch it on the flop, it’s a longshot. My advice would be to hedge your odds by only holding out for suited straight draws – at least that way you might catch the flush instead.”

“You-” Wanda stared at him. “Tell me you did not deduce all of that from how the muscles in my face move.”

“Not solely. Like I said;” he had been idly inching the burn pile in rotation upon the table, like a clock ticking away time, “to understand the intricacies of poker is to examine the nature of life itself.”

“Be serious,” yet suddenly she felt uncertain whether he joked or not.

He might have hesitated before saying, “You bet on the cards that you like for sentimental reasons, or because an improbable outcome fraught with risk and excitement seems more appealing to you. It’s obvious. Well. To me it is.”

Wanda opened and closed her mouth. He was right. Was he right? “Really – then pray tell, which cards do I have this troublesome affinity for?”

“Red ones.” He pointed to the two that she still held. “Like those.”

Wanda unpursed her lips to say, “You can’t prove that.”

“You can prove me wrong.” He raised his chin. “Show them.”

“I don’t have to show them if I fold. You made the last aggressing bet and revealed your cards before I called.”

What had been manifesting as a twitch unfurled into a lopsided grin, and Pietro looked upon her with pride. “Well, aren’t we a quick study. Yes darling, you caught me _rushing_ , imagine my shock. Do you fold then?”

Taking a moment to ponder (and to torment her brother for being so infuriatingly perceptive tonight), she flung down a queen of diamonds followed by a jack of hearts. An unsuited straight draw that she would not have bet on, save that they were red. “There,” she said, pretending to grouse, “have your glory.” Quietly basking in just that, Pietro collected the chips and then the deck to reshuffle.

“In the interest of a well-rounded lesson, since you have me all figured out, I think it’s only fair that you admit your own self-sabotaging gaffes, hm?”

“You mean in poker, of course.”

“Of course.”

After a bout of stillness, his brow furrowed in such a way that she instantly regretted the question. The mood had been perfectly light between them, and now hung heavy in the air. “Just one cardinal sin, really. An obvious, stupid pitfall, and I know better.” He seemed to shake himself, and began to deal stiffly.

_fwapfwapfwapfwap_

“Pietro-”

“No, it’s fine. I will tell you. I should tell you. Check.”

“Check.”

He dealt the flop face down, as he never did before, as though he could not bear yet to know what the future held. “In poker, you are supposed to play each new hand against the same logic, regardless of what occurred before. Provided that the basis of that reasoning is sound, losing a prior hand to bad luck should not change the way you conduct yourself in the next game. Sounds reasonable, right?”

“I guess. Hey, can we-?”

“But I- sometimes I cannot help but to keep holding on. I get stuck. And eventually trudging out of the mess of bad experience, I drag that garbage along with me into what should be a clean new day- a new deal. Of cards. I don’t play each hand the same, with a straight head. I don’t start every day fresh. I let the past haunt me, like I owe it something, like it’s a failed test I can take over eventually if I just think about it hard enough or feel bad enough for long enough, and the burden tarnishes my better judgment. I know it does.”

Wanda reached across the table, laying her hand open beside his.

He did not join with her. His left thumb rubbed at his right palm distractedly – it was a motion he often made, she realized, but it had no meaning while he was uniformed as usual. Now without gloves on, she could see the ghostly raised scar where his fortune should be, the shape like a jagged crop circle, the design like an ancient family crest worn illegible on the battlefield of time. She could not remember a day when he did not carry that scar and make an effort to conceal it.

He spoke as if recalling a dream, “I used to lie awake at night, just worrying about you. Not every night. Often enough.”

“Why?”

“Because. You know why. I just told you.” She did know why – she has always known. He combed one hand after the other through his hair. “Because of things that had happened before – or almost happened, or would have happened. I think there was a point where I could not tell one apart from another anymore – real events from perceived dangers. Things that actually occurred from things I feared might come to pass. I’m sorry. I know it was… I know I made things difficult for you. I made things worse for us both, and I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Pietro… you realize you’re doing it right now, I hope?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Fixating on the past.”

“No I’m not. Well- yes all right, but…” low words at super speed came across as a grumble. He rubbed his eyes momentarily, and straightening, finally placed his left hand in Wanda’s – the other he returned as a fist on the table, wrapping that scar up tight. “Never mind. I just meant to say that I am sorry.”

“As you have said before, many and plenty times. And as I have said, I’m grateful.” She bent to kiss the top of his hand before covering it with her other. “You protected me fiercely when I needed it most, and supported what you believed in your heart to be my best interests. You were wrong, sometimes, but we also know some of those…. _later_ convictions were not even your own.” She felt him tense up a bit. Who is to say when Maximus’ influence over her brother had first begun or to what extent. He might have been under the wicked thrall of a vindictive lunatic from the start. She only knew that while in that madman’s vicinity, Pietro was like a stranger to her, a cartoon caricature of his own evil twin, and the longer he stayed away from his adoptive home among the Inhumans and the life he strove to build there, the more he came back to himself; though standing then alone amidst the wasteland wrought by his own hands unwittingly.

Thus they remained for a while in silence, passing through together that which heals all wounds.

“Thank you for teaching me about poker. And for helping me win.”

“Thank you for learning from my mistakes. And for letting me buy back in.”

Sheepish, Wanda admitted, “….I don’t know what that means.”

Again that sad smile, so foreign on her brother’s handsome face grown stern through hard years. “Some house rules allow for a buy back. If you lose all of your chips, you can re-pay the entry fee to keep playing.”

“Oh – ha. Well, I propose as another Maximoff house rule that if we have not yet seen the flop, and are also quite hungry, we can opt to play high hand instead and still end the game honorably.”

Pietro considered her. “You probably will not beat the hand that I have, Wanda.”

“I could say the same. Draw on three? Three!” Still his cards hit the table first. They both had been holding an ace and king.

“Hm.”

“Don’t even think about it.” Wanda snatched the cards before her brother could deal out the rest of the game to discover who would have won otherwise. Propping her elbow on the confiscated deck, she asked over her cellphone, “What do you want on your pizza?”

**_~fin~_ **

**Author's Note:**

> The scar on Pietro’s palm is not comic canon. In Moonlighter headcanon ‘verse, he recalls its origin during a nightmare/flashback in the fic ‘Ghost Stories’.
> 
> This story is set sometime after Pietro’s first bout of madness during Englehart’s run, uh, I mean after meeting Crystal. I didn’t want to pin it to a very specific timeframe or place, but would like to think Wanda has gone mad at least once before this point as well.
> 
> It is also not necessarily comic canon that Maximus was responsible for Pietro’s reprehensible attitude towards his sister after she announced her engagement to Vision. For me, it’s extremely disappointing and kind of disgusting that a sibling pair who had been so close and supportive throughout their entire existence together would suddenly be at such odds during what should have been the happiest time of their lives up to that point. I’m 100% in favor of Pietro expressing reservations (pretty legitimate reservations) over his sister literally marrying a machine, so long as it were relayed in a believable manner that did not ignore his love for her and commitment to her happiness above all else. Yeah… so since we got just about the exact opposite of that, I pretty much chock this up to mind control in my fanfic ‘verse – because why not? :)


End file.
